


Holding On

by PinkLetterDay



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Artist!Barry Allen, Disability, Drug use (medicinal), Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut-adjacent, Veteran!Oliver Queen, flangst, neurodivergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 09:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17201168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkLetterDay/pseuds/PinkLetterDay
Summary: Sometimes in the face of hard reality, all we can do is hold onto each other and survive, even if only to dream of superheroes.





	Holding On

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wonderingtheblue (blue_wonderer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/gifts).



 

 

The sun beats down on his back, curling his flesh in its red-heat. Sweat cuts a path through the film of grime on his forehead as he hammers long nails into a beam.

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

_Dust itches his eyes through his scarf. Rust-brown shrapnel mixes with the jagged rocks and sand, blood and the metal both smelling of iron._

Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.

The rest of the crew yell  to each other over the side of the roof, but their voices only permeate as though from outside a bubble. The noise of a welding gun drills into his temples, sparking currents of pain that makes his vision swim. 

"Queen, look out!"

He instinctively ducks just in time to avoid colliding head-on with a huge pole being hefted in his periphery. The jolt of adrenaline clears his head, the haze dispersing to properly focus the world in the yellow glare of the afternoon sun. 

His supervisor is thick-set and red-faced, light hair plastered to his head with sweat. His face is stony under the shadow of his hard hat.

Oliver wills his heart to stop juddering against his ribs and gives him a quick smile. "I'm okay, Fyers."

"Sure you are," he snorts. "Come on down." His tone brooks no argument.

Oliver's stomach drops with his harness as he lowers himself to the ground after him. This is not the first time he's done a roofing, but this time it's coincided with a particularly bad week for him.

His knee twinges as he approaches the man.

"This is the third time, Queen."

"Look, nothing happened. I just - spaced - for two seconds, that's all," Oliver defends.

"Yeah, and before that you spaced for five and nearly fell off," the disapproval in Fyers' furrowed brow makes his gut clench. "And before that - ,"

"I'm getting better, Eddie," the fury is a coiled snake in his blood, hissing. His fingers twitch. "It won't happen again."

It can't. He needs this job. It hasn't been like last time. He really is doing better. 

Eddie sighs in that faux sympathetic way that reminds Oliver of his Dad, Before. Robert in a thousand dollar suit and tie, arranging his face into an expression that seemed to give a crap before telling the poor desperate schmuck in front of him, " _I'm sorry, but I have a business to run."_

The fury threatens to rear. _Yeah, you ran it straight to the ground,_ Oliver thinks, imagining the plain grey headstone.

"Listen, it's not up to me," says Fyers. "I need all the hands I can get to finish this gig within the next few weeks, but the company is still squeezing us for our last dime. If they ask me to make the operation even leaner, you know I'll have to let you go, right?"

His fingers twitch again. "I'm a good worker." _Shallow quick breaths._

"And a liability. I'm just the middleman, Oliver," Fyers shrugs helplessly. The snake coils in his knuckles, seething.

He does not let them into a curl into a fist. "Right. Thanks for the heads-up."

The anger helps some, for the rest of the day. It's always been cold steel pressed to his mind, marshalling the skittering electric currents of anxiety in his brain into compliance. The tender keening of his knee also accentuates it, joining the ache of his muscles as the physical labour goes on. 

He doesn't start shaking until he's seated in the subway. It's something about the flourescent lights on sheet metal. Or maybe the hum of the power lines on the edge of hearing. He doesn't know why this is a trigger; nothing in Kandahar ever looked or smelled like a US metro. But then he's discovering that triggers can be so tangential as to have nothing to do with the original...trauma...at all. TV has a lot of bullshit to answer for.

The vibration of an incoming call in his pocket jarrs his brain into a brief storm of static, and he grinds his teeth, trying not to snarl. He has to take a deep breath through his nose so he doesn't crush the phone in his fingers before he can flip it open. The name on the small grey screen immediately makes everything worse. _Mom_.

Things are better now, with her, as long as they keep their distance and deal with their own problems. He knows she loves him but he can only take her well-meaning narcissism and probing questions so much on a good day. Which is not today. 

A part of him will always be a little boy craving her comfort though, even when that comfort has always come at the price of waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was a reason he had enlisted into a war zone rather than deal with her and his father. And that had been Before.

He cuts the call with the customary stab of guilt ( _I'm sorry, Thea_ ) and breathes deep, rubbing his eyes. An image of a crooked smile and honey-sweet lips rises behind his eyelids, easing his chest, and anticipation cuts through the weariness to curl in a steady, defiant glow inside him.

Home is a small hole-in-the-wall studio in a square concrete building. The threadbare carpets and rickety stairs are a complete remove from the polished mahogany balustrades of his youth, but each step releases the tension in his body. The grey walls and narrow hallways never cloy the air and fill the back of his throat with a nameless dread the way the Manor had done, his heart instead reaching for its safety.

Barry's safety.

The front door scrapes and groans, announcing his arrival. He always reminds himself to fix it but never has any energy to spruce up their own home at the end of the day.  

Barry is a long roll of blankets on the double mattress on the floor, only the top of a messy brown head poking out. He has probably not even changed out of the sweats he slept in last night. 

The sight of him is a mixed blessing. The anticipation deflates, replaced by a rush of tenderness and a frisson of irritation. Barry usually perks up like an eager puppy when he comes home. To not emerge at all means it's one of Those Days. Oliver could really have done with some affection today, but. Oh well.

He gets on his knees beside Barry's head and says softly, "Hey."

A grunt.

"You eaten?"

Disgruntled grunt.

"By that do you mean my half of the slice of cake I left in the fridge?"

Sad wuffle.

"Okay," Oliver has to grin despite himself. "I'll let you off the hook if you eat something else."

A sadder whine.

"You gotta."

Grumpy snuffle.

"Did you take your meds?"

Affirmative grunt.

"Can I have a hug?" 

A muffled sigh and then a lone pinkie finger emerges extended from underneath the pile of blankets.

Oliver shakes it gravely. "Much obliged. I love you too. One grilled cheese sandwich comin' right up.

Barry's sleep-ruffled head pokes out gradually at the pungent cooking smells from their tiny kitchenette, as Oliver knew it would. He's grumbling but sitting up when Oliver comes back with two plates of sandwiches, two for both of them because Barry will forget he's not hungry once he starts eating. He accepts his dinner with a ghost of the sweet smile Oliver has been missing.

"Is this what you've been doing today?" he gestures to the sketchbook on the bed. It's open to several comic panels done in pencil. "May I?"

Barry's cheeks stain pink and averts his eyes but does not stop Oliver taking the sketches. His character, the Flash, is today engaged in an epic battle with a villain that has trapped him in a wall of mirrors. The speedster runs through the maze alone, surrounded by distorted reflections of himself and the laughter of his enemy the Mirror Master, seeing glimpses of the world beyond but unable to punch or phase through to warn his friends. 

The story is engaging and beautifully outlined, the dialogue heartfelt and funny. And as usual, cuts off in the middle where Barry's manic energy has run out.

"It isn't finished," Barry mumbles into his sandwich. "Sorry. [I ran out of spoons](https://butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/)." _I always do_ , is implied in the quiet shame.

"Why are you sorry?" Oliver says sincerely, "This is amazing, babe."

They're all amazing to him. He is neither artist nor storyteller but Barry's stories jump out of the pages to him, drawing him in. He fell in love with the man's art before he had fallen in love with him, but Barry continues to believe him biased.

"I don't know where it goes from there," he says, disproportionately miserable. "I don't know how to get him out."

"STAR Labs crew hit a dead end?"

Barry shrugs. "Not even Iris can see him."

That is always a bad sign. There is a silence as Oliver ponders this. "Have you thought about calling in the Hood?"

Barry's gaze, still pinned on a corner of the blanket, becomes bitter. "He should be able to save himself without the Hood. Iris should be enough."

There's a lot Oliver can say to this. _The Hood is his partner too. The Flash has saved him plenty of times. It's not a burden._

_It's okay to need more than a manifestation of your own heart to pull yourself out of your worst days._

But the reality is, sometimes the Hood does get tired.

"I don't like it anymore, anyway," Barry continues. "It's a waste of time. I should have been working on my commissions."

His commissions are mostly online fantasy and fanart. He enjoys them but between his ADHD, bipolar and chronic fatigue, they are few and far between. It brings in just enough to ease the tightness of their household budget, which has only become more strained since his disability benefits were unceremoniously slashed. 

"You know that that's not the point, don't you?" he reiterates, almost by habit. Barry simply continues to wolf down the sandwiches, true to form, after starving himself most of the day. "I dont care if we can't sell them as long as they made you happy."

This only elicits a non-commital noise. The frisson of irritation from earlier flares a little harsher.

"Did it make you happy?" Oliver asks patiently.

"For a while, I guess," Barry says miserably, still not looking at him.

The stress headache that had somewhat receded in the safety of their apartment and his proximity to Barry's presence, now makes itself known again, compounded with the ache in his weary joints. All he had wanted was to not have to deal with this when he got home.

"Okay," he responds, trying not to be short with Barry. "Welp. That's something. I'm just gonna jump in the shower if you don't want anything else."

"It's fine, I'll get the plates," says Barry, staggering up with difficulty. Oliver looks somewhat skeptically at him. Barry barely has the energy to move on days like this. On the other hand, he could use a small break too.

"If you're sure."

The warm water is plentiful as Barry hadn't used any all day, even if the pressure isn't near enough. Oliver leans his head against the cool tile and lets the rivulets run over his too-warm body. His back aches like a bitch and the warning twinges his knee has been giving him all day means his old combat injury is going to flare up soon and leave him in three weeks of agony minimum. They'll need painkillers if he's to manage working on it. The doctor warned him not to do that last time, that he would only aggravate it, but he cant afford to miss three weeks of wages because of a little pain.

He feels the displacement of the precious humidity and does not look up when his boyfriend slots himself behind his back in the spray, soaping his hands around him.

"Someone's feeling better," Oliver smirks tiredly, pressing his ass against Barry's front. He's up for it as long as all he has to do is stay just like this against the tile and not have to move while Barry uses him how he pleases.

That would actually be very nice.

Chapped lips brush against the nape of his neck. "Ssshhh," Barry shushes and begins kneading the muscles of Oliver's arms.

He works his magic hands all over Oliver's back, thumb digging deep into the dips of his back and sides. It's pure heaven. Oliver is fully hard and doesn't give a damn as long as he can die a little every time Barry's long, strong fingers press into a particularly knotted spot.

"I thought you were tapped out," Oliver pants, biting back another moan as Barry's thumb works deep into a muscle.

"I thought I was," he chuckles, "but I wanted to do something nice for you."

"This is nice," Oliver agrees, groaning.

Barry turns him around and kisses him. Oliver melts against that long, pale body, so frail most of the time but so strong when he needs it to be. The stress finally loosens its hold and seeps out with the water as they hold each other and breathe into each other's mouths.

"Hello," Barry smiles at him through his roof of lashes, close enough to brush against his own.

Oliver lazily brushes his tongue against his lips. "Hi."

Barry smirks and draws away. He sinks to his knees in front of Oliver,  holding his heated gaze as his face levels with his erect cock. Oliver's breath hitches in anticipation and then -

His hand closes around his aching knee and clamps around the exact spot with perfect pressure. Oliver almost staggers in relief, a cry ripped out of him.

"You're a little shit," he half-laughs, half-moans as Barry grins up at him while massaging his throbbing tendon. "How did you know?"

"I always know," the wry hook of Barry's mouth gentles to a smile.

Oliver watches him, eyes rolling back in his head and hissing intermittently as those fingers knead deep and careful. Barry seems absorbed in his task, humming to himself, but Oliver still anxiously searches his face for any hint of weariness amidst his own unspeakable relief.

"You can stop when you feel tired, you know," he says, trying not to feel guilty.

"I know," Barry hums absently, playing the line of Oliver's calf like an instrument. "I wish I could do this for you every night. Might help stave it off longer."

"Maybe," allows Oliver, "but cant stop it without having surgery. Which I dont have insurance for."

Barry's hand pauses. "What if I cut down on my anti-anxiety meds this month and use it to get you a stronger -,"

"Nope."

"Or at least get you another PCP, Oliver -"

"Barry, we aren't dicking around with your meds," says Oliver sternly. "That never ends well. A little pain won't kill me."

Barry glares at the hand wrapped around his knee stubbornly. They both know the pain is never small. Oliver tries not to think about the last time Barry found him collapsed in the bathroom, crying silently while ineffectually trying to ice his screaming leg.

He reaches down and puts his own hand over Barry's. "This is enough," he tells him gently, willing those troubled blue eyes to back down. "This is more than enough for now."

His mulish expression loses its edge, but only in a way that lets Oliver know the discussion has been tabled. They stay holding hands as the water washes over them, until the tension slowly dissipates and a light of mischeif comes over Barry's face instead.

"Well, I was going to do something about this too," he says nonchalantly reaching up to finally grasp Oliver's straining dick. "But if you're sure -"

"I will kick you in the head," says Oliver seriously and Barry cracks up, refocusing his attention on the much more interesting appendage at hand.

Later, they lie side by side on the mattress, feet braced on the window sill over the fire escape, sharing a joint from Barry's precious prescription marijuana stash. The dirty yellow light suffusing the street glares into the sky as the smoke curls upwards in slow, lazy rings, acrid and sweet. The traffic is a not-so-distant cacophony, someone is shouting in apartment 3B, and metal clangs loudly in the nearby restaurant. The hundred smells of the sleepless city seeps in, spoiled and stale, cement and mildew, muffled in the dimness and the haze of weed. 

And yet this is the most peaceful Oliver can ever remember being. His head is finally quiet, the persistent throb at his temples dull enough to belong to someone else. The nip of the evening cold is not as real as Barry's space-heater warmth pressed to his side ("I think maybe you really are a speedster.") He snuggles his scruffy face into Oliver's neck, the clean soap scent of his damp hair filling his nostrils.

"I wish I could take care of you the way you take care of me," his mumbling tickles Oliver's skin. "I feel like all I do is take sometimes."

"You do take care of me," he presses his cheek against Barry's hairline, staring peacefully into the dark. "I feel seventy five percent better than when I walked in here. Dinner for massages ain't bad at all."

"I dont always give you massages. I barely ever have the spoons. Kinda surprised I did today."

"Yeah, but most days you give me smiles," Oliver smiles into the dark himself, although Barry cant see it. "Your smiles are worth at least one fourth of a massage."

"Your currency rates are whack," complains Barry and Oliver laughs. They thread their fingers together.

"You take care of me by being there for me to come home to," says Oliver, kissing their joined hands. "I'd rather take care of you on your worst day than spend my life without you. That's why it's important to me that you find things to hold onto. Like your art."

"You like my art," Barry's voice is always small and disbelieving, no matter how many times Oliver has told him this as fact over and over.

Oliver kisses his forehead softly. "I love your art. And your stories. They're amazing. Like you. One day I hope other people can see them too," he tightens his arms around Barry's sweet warmth. "But for now it's enough that you and I get to enjoy them."

He has faith that Barry will one day work all this out. He has already survived a childhood of foster homes, illness and isolation to find his way into Oliver's arms, his sunshine hidden under clouds but never extinguished. 

One day, the world will get to see Barry Allen for the extraordinary talent he is. 

"What about you?" Barry's chest hitches against his own. "You could do so much more on your own. You're so smart too. You can take care of yourself so much better than me -"

"Barry," Oliver draws him back to look him full in the face in the half-light. "If you weren't there, I'm not sure I'd have a reason to take care of myself."

Barry's eyes are sad, wordlessly drawing a hand along Oliver's cheek. He nestles his face against it. 

"But if you really did love me," Oliver smirks flippantly against the palm, trying to return to the previous lightened mood, "you'd shave every day." Barry groans and rolls onto his back as Oliver laughs. "Seriously, babe, the scruff is not a good look on you."

Barry kicks his shin. "You just got done telling me you love me as I am!"

"You yeah. Not the caterpillar trying to molt on your face when you go two days without shaving."

"You are the worst boyfriend," Barry pouts at the ceiling. "You weren't complaining about how bad I looked when I blew you in the shower."

"Nope," Oliver agrees, bending down to kiss the insulted moue off his face. "Must really be love."

There is a brief, laughing scruffle during which Barry pins Oliver back into the mattress and steals back the blunt. Fucker is strong when he wants to be. He takes a deep drag and leans down to seal his lips over Oliver's, shotgunning the smoke into his mouth.

Oliver pulls it deep into his lungs, melting into the mattress beneath Barry's warm weight, letting it sink into his blood, his heart, his bones.

The smoke curls between their lips as he breathes out. "Tell me a story" he whispers, "about the Flash and the Hood."

Barry's eyes light up. He snuggles back into Oliver's side and throws a leg over his waist beneath the blanket, trapping the warmth between them. "I'm thinking of changing his name to the Arrow actually. So there's this one character, Vandal Savage..."

**Author's Note:**

> The chronically ill and neurodivergent in the disabled community whose lives are defined by our limited energy reserves like to call ourselves Spoonies, after [Christine Miserandino's Spoon Theory](https://butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/). "Spoons" are very much like currency, the poorer we are of them the faster we run out and the less we can afford to do, forcing us to make choices that non-spoonies will never understand.
> 
> It's corollary, [The Fork Theory](http://jenroses.tumblr.com/post/181045322711/have-i-told-yall-about-my-husbands-fork-theory), which is still new.
> 
> Alternatively, [The Gorilla In My House.](http://batsgirl.blogspot.com/2008/04/gorilla-in-your-house.html?m=1)
> 
> I've left Barry's physical disabilities undefined and undiagnosed except for chronic fatigue. This is true to life. Most chronically ill people suffer without diagnosis for years, knowing only our symptoms and not the cause. 
> 
> Oliver's PTSD here manifests as sensory overload, anxiety, anger and headaches rather than the flashbacks TV fixates on. 
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to Ballycastle_Bat for the beta read!


End file.
